


She'll Never Win "Mother of the Year"

by AngelGirl4212



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 16:17:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16201136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelGirl4212/pseuds/AngelGirl4212
Summary: After Beverly incidentally slaps Wesley; he reflects on his mother and all that she does and doesn't do.





	She'll Never Win "Mother of the Year"

**Author's Note:**

> This another earlier work that I wrote while in University.

_Disclaimer: Star Trek: The Next Generation does not belong to me. If it did, I wouldn't have to rely on OSAP to pay for my University. I am not making any money off of this (again, if I was, I wouldn't have a debt big enough to buy a new car)._

 

_I didn't place this in a specific season although fans may recognize some events. Let's just say that I'm too lazy to do my own research to find out what season that the events came from. It isn't really important to know either._

 

I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Tears sting my eyes and my hand flies to my cheek, as if touching the hot skin there will somehow soothe the emotional hurt. There is some physical pain; she did just slap me. However, the discomfort pales before the obvious fact that she had never laid a hand on my before. The word “before” gets stuck in my mind.

 

She's staring at me, her eyes wide with horror and already shining with unshed tears. She's going to start babbling apologies any second and I really don't want to hear them. Instead of standing there mindlessly accepting her excuses and her blame, I walk slowly to my room. She's still standing there in shock when I shut the door on my name.

 

There's an immediate sense of being surrounded by silence. Normally it's a sensation that I relish; the shutting out of stress and expectations. Now, it only feels as if I'm being forcefully isolated from the rest of the ship. In my mind, I can almost hear others laughing and joking. There are “Others” out there; Others who are happy, Others who don't have an overwhelming presence spewing heartfelt apologies just outside of hearing. I've never felt so much like killing myself.

 

As if encouraged by that idea, fragment thoughts begin ti churn in my head. Sitting here on my bed in the midst of an isolation more intense then any I have ever felt before, I grieve for the mother I may have had if my father had lived. The mother that I once did have.

 

It was almost 2 hours before I worked up enough courage to leave my room.

 

***

 

“Now, Wesley,” Deanna's voice rolls like ocean waves, “I know that you're upset with your mother right now, and no one blames you for that. Those are normal feelings. However, you have to understand that it wasn't entirely her fault. She was under the influence of--”

 

It was at this point that I began to block out the actual words and concentrated instead on the way her voice seemed to suggest that everything was A-okay. I bet that she became a councilor partly because of that voice. Her voice has a way of soothing you because it makes her sound perfectly reasonable. It doesn't matter what she's saying, you just know that she is right.

 

I wanted to hit her. I wanted to scream at her. How dare her voice suggest that! She didn't know. She **couldn't** know. Even if she did, she **would** take my mother's side. They **are** best friends and that had to mean something.

 

I hated what she was suggesting too. It wasn't just her voice; I hated what she was saying. It seems that my mom has to be under **something's** influence to do anything wrong, or to spend enough time with me to lead to that wrong course of action.

I try not to be bitter about that, but I am. Sometimes I don't think that I'm a big part of her life. I know she loves me, but it's as if I'm not really included somehow. She knows this, but that doesn't change anything.

 

***

He's in there again. This is the second night this week. I'm not supposed to know, of course, but it's not as if they go to great lengths to hide their relationship. She denies that they even have a relationship. She could tell me, I wouldn't mind. I mean, he is the captain. I practically **worship** him. It's that he's in the-with her-and she doesn't have the guts to tell me that they're dating.

 

She's always doing things like that. She refuses to see how her decisions impact my life. I didn't even know that she was interested in anybody until I walked in on them kissing.

 

***

 

“Your mother asked me to speak to you,” there's a hint of an accent in his voice that even years on a starship hasn't washed away.

 

“I already know and I'm fine with it. I don't care if you're seeing my mother.”

 

He looks visibly relieved. He doesn't even care if I'm lying or not, just as long as he doesn't have to have this conversation. I've never really thought about it before, but for a ship's captain, he's not very good with children.

 

He let me leave. There are no questions on why my mother burdened him with the responsibility or reassurances that he wouldn't attempt to replace the father that I can barely remember.

 

With the thoughts of my father come a swell of pity for this man, who my mother loves; who my mother still blames for her husband's death, especially when she cries for him after a night of restless sleep. And I feel a sort of kinship with my mother. I love her and hate her too...

 

***

I come home to the hushed whispers of my mother and Deanna Troi. I don't know what they're talking about; the whispering stops as soon as they realize that they aren't alone anymore.

 

“Hello, Wesley,” Deanna greets me with a smile.

 

I smile back before fleeing to the safety of my room.

 

***

In the morning, my mother replicates me breakfast. I can't remember the last time that we were in the same room this early in the day. Neither does she because she replicates me toast and scrambled eggs. I hate scrambled eggs.

 

I sigh and eat the toast. Her fingers play with my hair, making me feel as if I'm part of some strange “happy family” holodeck simulation. I feel almost cheated by her sudden interest in me; the rest of me feels the familiar stirrings of hope. I find myself playing into the fantasy before I can stop myself. I hate myself, but I need this, even if it only lasts a little while.

 

I love her. She'll never win “Mother of the Year”,but she's still my mother. She's all that I have.

 

The End

 

 

 


End file.
